If I could write down any extravagant word that has ever been caressed by human lips, I would. But embellishment is not what sets my writing aflame. No, my words come, not from the mind, but from the soul.

When I write, my spirit is overjoyed as I watch my heart take flight across a page. The heart that normally stays behind iron bars, for I fear it would be easily broken, is set free.

I no longer compare myself to others, whether they be better or worse than I. I am content with my abilities, and I can say that I laugh in the face of envy and scowl at the thought of changing my ways for those who find fault in them

You think me strange because I do not follow suit with your politically correct standards. But if I am classified as strange and you are classified as normal, I would ask of you to place them back-to-back and define them. Give me a bright, red line between them; give me the meaning of the barrier and analyze what makes either one more sought after than the other, and then we’ll speak of abnormalities.